


The World Named Watson

by martinsbae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martinsbae/pseuds/martinsbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John gets minorly injured, Sherlock realises his feelings for his blogger. He decides he wants to be more than friends with the doctor, but the threat of Moriarty looms behind them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Don't blame me, it's your own fault" I pant as I stumble into 221B. I lean on the wall and try to regain my breath, delighting in the feel of adrenaline and the thrill of the chase soaring through me. John shuts the door and all but collapses onto the wall next to me, one arm clutching his waist.

"You wanker" he laughs, only to be brought short by a wince. "You knew he had a bloody knife and you still let me deck him".

"Yes, well, as I said, it's not my fault you do not observe John. In my defense, I didn't realise you _would_ "deck him" as you so eloquently put it". John's eyes narrow with each word I say and a sense of hilarity erupts in me. I laugh like I haven't done in a while. John closes his eyes, trying to reign in his anger like he always does. Give it a minute and he'll storm out with his famous "I need some air" excuse. But with his wound he isn't up for walking anywhere. Bags under eyes obviously indicate tiredness; the case was a long one after all. It just makes me laugh harder.

  
"What in the _bloody hell_ is so funny?" he fumes, and pushes past me, obviously going for a dramatic storm off, but ruins the effect by almost falling over on the first step. I reach over and put one of his hands over my neck so I can take his weight, ignoring the huff of annoyance aimed my way. It takes far longer than I anticipated before we reach the top of the stairs and I deposit him onto his chair, where he drops his head back and takes a deep sigh. "I need to clean this wound up".

  
I roll my eyes. "He barely touched you, you're not even bleeding anymore". It was true, John was a doctor, he must know it was nothing serious. If it was, John would be in a hospital right now, I'd make sure of that. I try to shake off the memories of that god-awful moment when the knife skimmed John's torso, not knowing how deep the cut was. It was confusing. Everything went fussy and I couldn't think. All I felt was fear. But John hit back at the man and dragged him down under him, laughing when he feebly struggled underneath his strong thighs. The sense of relief in that moment was startling in it's extremity. I save the memory, knowing I will have to reevaluate my intense reactions in my mind palace, and look back to John.

  
"Yes, I know, but it still needs cleaning and bandaging. Do me a favour and pass me my medical box will you?" he sighs and I grab the blue box from the kitchen and bring it to him.

  
"Here. Have fun John." I go to pick up my violin but am brought short by the sound of John desperately trying to take off his T-Shirt. Clearly he can't lift his arms very far due to that stupid wound.

  
"Sherlock I know this is gonna be dull for you but I kinda need your help over here".

  
Sighing, I walk in front of his chair and raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

  
"Just...could you take my T-Shirt off please?"

  
Huffing at being made to play nurse I grab the bottom of the T-Shirt rather forcefully, earning a "hey!" of anger from John. Fine. I ease the T-Shirt up over the ugly wound, which really isn't too deep. By my guesses, John will be able to walk normally in about two to three days. It isn't bleeding any more but the blood still shines a brilliant red. I ease the shirt further up, and my eyes involuntarily widen at the layer of toned muscle in golden skin that lies there. There are some scars dotted around, and the one on his shoulder lies on strong arms. I try to ignore the screaming in my head at the unfamiliar sight as I pull it off over his head.

  
He sighs, causing his chest to ripple the muscles that are extremely evident. I find I am staring and look away.

  
"Okay, thanks, I think I can do the rest now" he says and reaches for a piece of cotton and some antiseptic.

  
I try to say something, but all I can manage is a weak nod. I practically run into my room and bolt the door behind me, wondering what the hell is going on with me. Why do I feel so shaky and why is my pulse so elevated?! I've seen shirtless men before. Was it seeing the wound again? The image of the knife comes into my head and I mentally slam it away, not wanting to think about it. Ever. John and pain shouldn't be two things that go together. Fury at the criminal takes hold of me, and I shake with anger at what could potentially have happened to John. I fling myself onto my bed and melt into my thinking pose, needing some answer.

  
I flick through my reactions of tonight. The anger, the fear, the unfamiliar nervous feeling which I can't pinpoint. I fast forward to when I lost the ability of speech. Oh, yes, John without his T-Shirt. Why did that affect me so much? Was it because John has obviously been working out again? I knew he was visiting the gym after work, the signs were obvious. Yet another one of John's ways to attract women, I suppose. Apart from the wound, his chest is strong with defined muscles that have faded slightly since his army days. Strong arms and muscles around his abdomen which angle down to the secret and tempting place in his body that suddenly becomes so desirous to inspect. I come to a screeching halt in my mind palace. Tempting? Did I just refer to John's body as "tempting"?

  
I sit bolt upright. "Oh, shit" I say. It is one of the very rare occasions where I curse.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

I spend precisely four hours, 38 minutes and 46 seconds in my room before I brave coming out, still uncertain on what these new feelings are. The room is dark, it's well past midnight and there's moonlight streaming into the room. John is asleep in his chair. Either he dropped off without knowing it or he couldn't face walking to his room. His face is relaxed in sleep, and the moonlight plays upon his chest, which is now bandaged. I watch the steady rise and fall of his breathing and wonder what that golden skin which confused me so much feels like. Taking a breath, and watching carefully for any signs of John waking up, I tentatively place my fingertip on his left pectoral and drag my finger across. Warm and soft skin greets me and I inhale sharply. In that moment, I want nothing more than to feel every inch of his bare chest, to inspect if it all feels the same. I want to see his breath hitch as I discover which places makes his heart stutter. I want to feel below, to see every part of him. An image of John, face distorted in ecstasy at my touch fills my mind and it's a struggle to control my breathing. The intensity of the want overwhelms me and I stagger back to my chair and look down. My trousers are bulging and I desperately close my eyes and try to will the invasion to go away. This rarely happens, and every time it does I think it away. I can't have my transport interfering with The Work.

  
After a while it disappears, and I shake some common sense into myself. It's stupid. John is straight. I'm married to my work. These are pointless thoughts that I should delete. Yes, that's it. I will delete the image of John like this and how he feels. I will. I should. I can't. This is something I can't delete. It's ridiculous and sentimental but I simply can't forget John in this way. I resist the strong urge to smooth my hand over his forehead and watch how his unconscious face reacts, and instead bring my duvet over. I drape it over him and take off his shoes. A little crease has appeared between his eyebrows. I wonder what he could be dreaming of. Pushing the thoughts away, I spend the rest of the night engaged in experiments in the kitchen, trying and failing to ignore the blogger in the living room with the golden skin and the deep, dark blue eyes.

  
After some time, when the morning light is streaming in through the windows, John stirs. I risk a glance away from my microscope to see him sit up and look confused at the duvet. "Sherlock?" his voice is still muddled with sleep, and I imagine him saying my name in that way in a very different context. Annoyed with myself, I return my eyes to the microscope.

  
"Here" I mutter.

  
John stands up and inspects his wound briefly, then walks over to the kitchen and starts to boil the kettle. Can't the man put his T-Shirt back on? This is driving me insane.

  
"Thanks mate, for the duvet. Guess I was more shattered than I thought". He opens the fridge and grabs eggs and bacon. "So can I force some food down you this morning? You've not eaten in three days Sherlock." He waves a piece of bacon in front of me and I grin.

  
"Fine" I say, causing John to nearly choke on his newly made tea and raise his eyebrows.

  
"What?!" he stutters. "No objection? No giant monologue on how the body is transport? You're actually agreeing to eat. Are you okay or are you ill?" He quickly shoves his hand on my forehead and his chest bumps into my arm, making his bare skin extremely close to me. I jump out of my chair so quickly I get slightly dizzy.

  
"Woah, sorry. You're all jumpy this morning" he smirks.

  
Before I can reply there is a strong knock on the door and I inwardly groan. Mycroft has the worst timing. He'll know every thought that's crossed my mind in the last 24 hours by just one glance.

  
"Sherlock! Your brother is here to see you!" Mrs Hudson's voice booms up the stairs.

  
"Kindly show him the way out, I have no interest in the politics of the world today" I shout back.

  
After the sound of measured footsteps, Mycroft strolls in, looking smartly dressed in that suit which he must have been born in.

  
"Impeccable manners, as always little brother" he says as he walks into the room and assesses me. Here goes. His eyes rake over me, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, and narrows his eyes. He then turns his glance to the bare chested John in the kitchen, who's back is turned, and returns his gaze to me, smirking. I raise an eyebrow, daring him to say anything. After what seems like an age of eye contact battling, he sits down in John's chair. "So you two have been busy. I'm glad to see you took such care of Doctor Watson, Sherlock. It seems it must have been such a hardship for you to show such uncharacteristic levels of care." He says, his boastful smirk getting bigger.

  
I nervously glance at John, but he hasn't heard a thing. I narrow my eyes. "Stop" I say with venom. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

  
"Hey Mycroft. I'm just gonna go in the shower. Make sure Sherlock eats something please". John says and walks over. He smiles and winks at me, causing my stomach to give a large jolt, which Mycroft undoubtedly recognises. John leaves and Mycroft stares at me. When the sound of the shower turns on, I roll my eyes and stand up.

  
"Whatever thoughts you're brewing right now, I implore you to keep them unvoiced". I walk over to the window and fiddle absently with the curtains.

  
"I suppose congratulations are in order. Mother will be so proud to know her youngest son is in a teenage whirl at the sight of a muscular chest. Are you planning on telling John about your new...feelings?" Mycroft says and I turn and pierce him with a glare.

  
"Please leave. It has nothing to do with you".

  
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "As thrilling as I find your innermost desires Sherlock, that isn't why I'm here. Moriarty has been in touch again". Moriarty. Fear churns in my gut at the name. Him at the swimming pool. John decked in explosives. John in danger. No.

  
"Saying what?"

  
"Oh, just the usual. Cryptic codes and scary threats to you again. In my opinion, Moriarty won't be coming after you any time soon. He's been recently occupied with some of his connections in Asia, due to MI6, you're welcome. He's rather rushed off his feet. But it won't be for long. When he returns I expect you to be less careless than usual and have constant vigilance at all times, do you understand? Try to remember Sherlock, it's not just your life at stake in the case of James Moriarty" he says seriously and I glance in the direction of the bathroom. Anger at Moriarty is a frequent occurrence now, especially now he's involving John. "I will burn the heart out of you". Is it possible Moriarty knew how much John meant to me even before I did? Did he spot that the center of my universe now rotates around two spheres; the Work and John Watson.

  
I nod. "Just keep me updated on when he's back in London again".

  
Mycroft nods in return and gets up to leave. When he reaches the door he turns back and adds "I wouldn't wait too long Sherlock. John Watson is desired by many and you wouldn't want to miss your chance, would you?" And with that, he leaves.

  
I sigh and text Lestrade, in desperate need for a new case to take my mind off of everything.


	3. Chapter 3

It is one of the rare occasions where Lestrade delivers. The case is much more interesting than I expected. A serial killer of young women who kills their victims in alternating ways. Scotland Yard's dull hypothesis is that it is the work of many people, but they're all so dumb and can't spot a murderer if they were held up at gunpoint. It goes on for four days, most of which I try not to think about John at all, but it's difficult when the man is calling you "fantastic" and "brilliant" on an hourly basis. It's hard to keep my grin from spreading when he's near, and I try to form my features into the usually inscrutable expression when people are around.

  
"Hey" Molly says. I'm looking through my microscope, analyzing a substance that was found on one of the victim's trouser legs when Molly comes in, a spring in her step. New boyfriend. She's gained a few pounds and her face falls into an easy grin. I was just smiling like an imbecile at something John said earlier when she looks quizzically at me. "What are you smiling about?"

  
I clear my throat "Um...nothing" I say, annoyed at being caught out. John is getting food, and is most likely chatting up the blonde cashier that he found attractive. Stupid girl. A history of drug and alcohol addiction, blew through her dead grandfather's masses of money in only one year and is now presenting herself to be a sweet and virtuous psychology student. John can do better.

  
Molly raises an eyebrow. "Oh come on, Sherlock. You hardly ever look so happy. Has...something happened between you two?" She whispers.

  
I look up sharply "No. I don't know what you mean". She giggles.

  
"I think you do" she says, smiling from ear to ear.

  
Damn her. I don't know how to play this. Do I feign ignorance again or go along with it? Instead I just turn back to my microscope, fitting more pieces of the puzzle together with each second. Molly is still hovering.

  
"Come on...you can tell me" she says, practically bouncing on her feet.

  
At that precise moment John walks in, hands full with sandwiches and more paperwork from Lestrade.

  
"Tell you what?" he asks, striding towards us. I glance up at him. Ah. I was right. He was flirting with said blonde. Rejected though. I try not to look too smug about that deduction. He smiles at Molly, who nervously flattens her hair.

  
"Oh nothing...I just wanted Sherlock to tell me what he's found from his analysis. But you know...ever the mute...er...but I don't need the results...I'm...I need to check on...something...some dead body...another one". And after that torturous stream of babbling she scurries out of the room, leaving John looking puzzled but amused and me mortified. She may as well have said "Hi John, I was just asking Sherlock if you two have banged yet".

  
I resist huffing in annoyance and look back to the microscope. It really is distracting having John hovering so close. He's sifting through the photographs from the crime scene, and his face is scrunched up in concentration. A strong feeling of affection hits me and my eyes drop down to his lips.

  
"What?" he says. Oh. Maybe I shouldn't have stared for too long. That is going to become potentially problematic if I can't keep focused on crime scenes. I blink rapidly and guiltily avoid his eyes. "Mind Palace?" he asks. Yes! Brilliant John! I pretend to not hear him and make my eyes unfocused. "Guess you won't be speaking for a while then". And he sits some way away from me and begins opening his sandwiches.

 

 

 

  
Hours later, I'm running at full speed down the streets of London. It's freezing and pitch black, and it makes everything so much more interesting. I chase after the murderer with John hot on my heels. I can hear his pants as we sprint. We run for what seems like ages, but we eventually corner him behind a bar, which spills multicoloured light onto the pavement. The club music inside booms and vibrates my eardrums. In the darkness, the flashes of light distort the murderer's face to make him look slightly sinister. His face is twisted in fury, his eyes alight with hatred as he glares at me and John.

  
"Mr Mason, I believe" I say to him. John has one hand twisted behind him, ready to pull out the gun at a second's notice. "The police are on their way. You could try to run. Again. But there isn't really anywhere for you to go. Or you could try to fight through us" I smirk. John's lips twitch upwards in amusement, but his eyes are dangerously fixed on their prey. It's a beautiful sight.

  
The black haired man laughs and pulls out a knife. I inwardly sigh. "Dull" I mutter. When are the criminal classes going to get inventive with their weaponry? He bounds towards me, his arm raised. Idiot. He can't cut me from there. I grab his hand and push downwards, twisting it so the knife falls to the ground and he gives a yelp of pain. I hear John kick it behind us.

  
Mason's head snaps forward and hits my nose, causing blood to flow and me to stumble into the bins. The music continues to pound, along with my head. I watch as John punches him square on the jaw and he goes down, which gives me chance to grab both of his arms and fasten his wrists in the handcuffs I pick pocketed from Lestrade.

  
There is silence for a second as me and John look at each other. The light flashes onto his face and he begins to laugh. It's infectious, and soon we're both looking down at the pathetic sight at our feet. "Nice try" John chuckles to him.

  
"Fuck you" Mason spits, earning a knee to the crotch from John, and he doubles up in pain with a long groan. John is still laughing and hauls the man to his feet, dragging him to the front of the club to present to the newly arrived police cars. His strong arms restrain the taller man with easy grace, and he turns his head and raises an eyebrow at me, beckoning.

I eagerly go to him, delighting in the sight and the feel of our success.

  
And I have never been so turned on in all my life.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good job guys" Lestrade shouts to us over the loud chattering of the policemen. Mason is struggling fruitlessly, aiming death glares at me and John. Lestrade's hand pushes down on his head and he curses loudly, until the sound of his voice is cut off with a door slam. He still glares at everyone he sees, but is soon whisked away, no longer our problem. "You're putting Scotland Yard to shame" Lestrade says with a grin. I nod in acknowledgement of the compliment, but my eyes are fixed on John, who is grinning widely and bouncing on his heels. He catches my eye.

  
"Dinner?" he asks.

  
"Starving" I use his response from the night we first met, making John bark a laugh. It warms my heart and I can't remember a time I've smiled so much. I hail a taxi, and one comes almost immediately, earning a rolling of the eyes from John and a whispered "do you produce them or something?".

  
I clamber in, John behind me, and ignore Lestrade's shouts of "Oi! You have statements to give you tossers!" Boring. The taxi pulls away.

  
"Well, that was fun" John beams. "You were fantastic, Sherlock, truly" he says and his hand pats me on the knee. A thrill goes through me at his touch and I try not to lean into it.

  
"Thank you" I barely manage. "You weren't so bad yourself". That is an understatement. John has been on fine form the whole night. It's yet another example of how John Watson will always, unequivocally and unfailingly be more interesting to me than a crime scene. Sentiment. I shudder at the unfamiliarity of it.

  
We travel in comfortable silence and climb out to Angelo's. We're greeting by the host with a wide smile and vigorous hand shakes that go on for a little too long. We sit down in our prime spot, and Angelo brings over a candle.

  
"On the house. Have a nice date you two" he says with a wink and leaves. John just smiles back up at him and picks up a menu, looking utterly content.

  
What? No denial? This hasn't happened before. Why isn't John denying anything? He doesn't even look annoyed. Did he hear him correctly? Yes. His fingers are fiddling over the candle absently, acknowledging it's presence and giving more evidence to the fact that he is drawn to danger. Ignorance then. He's simply ignoring the statement. I need time to process this new information. But I have none. John looks up expectantly.

  
"Gonna eat?" he says. I ignore the new found burning curiosity and roll my eyes.

  
"If you insist" I say. He nods happily.

  
"Well...since this was a _long_ case, and I mean long, I think we should celebrate. I'll get a bottle of wine" he says and waits for the potential objection from me. Alcohol. This could work in my favour. John tends to be brutally honest when he's drunk, if a little ditsy and lovably emotional. Maybe I can ask him why he didn't respond to the assumption that we are a couple. This could get interesting. My spirits lift higher and I smile.

  
Angelo comes over quickly after we've ordered and John pours me a glass of red wine. It can't hurt. John is right. It _was_ a long case. It tastes strong, but not unpleasantly so. John drinks quicker than I do; he's pouring his second glass when I'm only halfway through my first. I manage to eat half on my plate, and even that was a challenge. I only ate so much because of John's narrowed and pointed 'Captain Watson' gaze. It sent a thrill through me which I felt mainly in my cock, and I shifted nervously before obeying. What the hell is happening to me?

  
"How's your nose?" John asks with a point.

  
"Fine" I huff in annoyance. I try not to feel too bitter about the fact that an amateur criminal drew blood from me. John just smirks.

  
"You're not superhuman, you know. You do have blood. And one day you'll have to accept the fact that I'm a better fighter than you" he says grinning.

  
"I am fully aware I have blood, John. I have an extensive knowledge of the human body. And it was simple luck. Admittedly, I should have seen the headbutt coming but I assure you I am a very competent 'fighter'" I snap back, my lips twitching with amusement.

  
"Which one of us invaded Afghanistan?" he says and points to himself.

  
"I thought that wasn't just you" I retort, now fully grinning.

 

 

  
The evening passes far too quickly. We have moved onto our second bottle of wine and my head feels pleasantly spinny. My lips tingle and everything seems much more relaxed and fun. John has a red blush to his cheeks from the wine and he becomes slightly louder with each glass. I only realise the time when Angelo reminds us he's closing.

  
"Ah, Angelo, thank you! Sherlock is glad that he put up your shelves" John slurs.

  
"No John, that was the chip shop" I say. My voice sounds unfamiliar, and I must have been slurring too. We stumble home, which takes much longer than usual as I fall over my own feet along the way. It's an effort to put my key in the lock of 221B, it seems to wobble up and down. It's extra difficult when John's arm is intruding my face, as he's playing with the door knocker, moving it from side to side. "Stop it John..." I barely manage. John just giggles.

  
I watch as John walks up the stairs, delighting in the view from this angle. When we reach the flat, John walks to the kitchen.

  
"You were brilliant today Sherlock. Proper genius. Did I say this already?" John turns and faces me, his eyes bright and blue and a grin forming on his face. He's beautiful. Somewhere in the depths of my drunken mind, I think it's a Bit Not Good to refer to your flatmate as 'beautiful'. But he is. I can think of no other word to describe him.

  
"Frequently" I say. I look into his eyes for a long time and then lower my eyes to his lips, which are more red than usual from the wine. I look back at him, all traces of humour gone, and suddenly I feel sober. All I see is John. He stares at me, and I cannot work out what he's thinking. He breaks the moment and turns away, but I catch his arm and slam him against the fridge, pinning his hands behind his back in an iron grip. Before he can react, I crush my lips onto his, hardly believing what I'm doing. I can taste the red wine on his lips and I slip my tongue into his mouth when he gasps for breath.The kiss is desperate, messy and my teeth bite his lip, making him moan. The sound shoots straight to my cock and I want to hear it again and again. I press my body hard against his and restrain his arms, which have given up fighting against me.

 

Eventually, the kiss changes into a slower and measured one which makes my toes curl. His tongue fights back against mine, and I relinquish control. I let go of his hands, which then wind into my hair. It feels glorious, and I moan into John's mouth. 

"Sher...Sherlock" John moans when I trail my tongue across his neck, lightly nipping his earlobe. It feels like my nerve endings are on fire. To feel John in this way is beyond words. Suddenly and intensely wanting all of him now, I unfasten his belt and plunge my hands into his boxers, finally feeling him. His head slams back into the fridge and his eyes close, his breathe coming in short gasps as I stroke and tease. I lick along his collarbone, pushing the shirt as far as it will go. I want to undo it, but I cannot face parting with John's skin. His moans intensify, and his hand shoots out to stroke my aching cock through my trousers. I groan. This is too intense. But I can't stop. I don't want to stop.

  
John is close. I can see it in the way he is almost shouting with pleasure. "Come for me John" I whisper dirtily into his ear. At my words, John's whole body goes rigid and his hands grasp tightly in my hair. It hurts, but I can't bring myself to care. He shouts out and it tips me over. I come for the first time in a very long time, and for a moment everything is bliss and pure and _John_.   
After a time, I extract my hand and stroke his jaw, pulling him into a sweet kiss. His eyes widen in surprise, but then grins into it. "Jesus" he mutters. "Guess we're not just flatmates anymore then". And we explode into laughter.


End file.
